


Stumbling In

by Kenjiandco



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Awkward shed sex, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Grinding, He's like a little baby dom just learning how to fly, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, commission, dom/sub more like herp/derp amIright, this is the derpiest Jean I've ever written, yes Roy and Riza are Jean's parents fucking FIGHT ME
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes running away from a party and hiding in a garden shed during a thunderstorm solves more problems than you'd expect...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Legendaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/gifts).



> A commission for the wonderful, WONDERFUL Legendaerie, who is also deserving for partial story credit. Here you go Saro, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title was taken from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xn3cwXrZNUA)

**Stumbling In**

 

“You’re sure you don’t want to drive separately, Jean?” his mom asked over her shoulder, hand on the gearshift of the car.  “You might want to stay later…or something…”

“I doubt it,” Jean mumbled, wrestling with the old minivan’s sticky seatbelts.  “It’s been _forever_ since I’ve seen any of these guys…not since high school...”

“Oooh, _forever,”_ his dad chuckled, glancing at Jean in the rearview mirror before merging onto the Interstate.  “A whole two years, a veritable _eternity—“_

 _“Roy.”_  Jean’s mother reached across the center console and knocked her knuckles against her husband’s temple.  “Stop it.”

“Kids have the _weirdest_ sense of time,” Roy mused, ducking away from his wife’s hand with the ease of long practice.  “’S far as _I_ remember it was last _week_ Reiner was showing up at our back door in tears ‘cause he fell off his bike…”

Jean rested his forehead against the cool surface of the window and tuned his father out, watching raindrops burst on the tinted glass and trail down out of sight.  His dad wasn’t wrong, he thought, as the sprawl of suburbia gradually faded out into the endless blanket of corn and soybeans that formed the general fabric of life outside the city.  It _was_ weird to think of Reiner getting married…looking back, it suddenly didn’t seem long at all since they’d been elementary school kids walking home from school together (the teachers always praised Reiner and Bertholdt…such grown up 6th graders, so _patient,_ always waiting to make sure their little 4th grade neighbor got home safe.)  It _definitely_ didn’t feel like ten years…it didn’t feel long ago at all, except when it felt like an eternity…

“Have you met Reiner’s fiancé?” Roy asked over his shoulder as they dodged around a semi with Oregon plates and pink Bond girl silhouettes on the mud flaps.

“Connie? Yeah, a couple times…he came to Annie’s New Year’s party last year…he’s sweet,” Jean said with a shrug.

His mother’s gaze fixated on the road ahead, and she made a faint sound between her tongue and teeth… _”Tch.”_ Jean looked up at the rearview mirror in time to catch his father throwing her a worried, sidelong look.  “ _Riza…”_ he murmured, somewhere between a question and warning.

Jean winced and shrank back into his seat, into himself, resisting the childlike urge to pull his arms inside his jacket and hug himself.  He _hated_ that noise…” _Tch.” Tch_ was engrained in his brain as his mother’s one true expression of disapproval.   She’d rarely voice complaints aloud, almost _never_ raise her voice…it was always just _tch,_ and there were times growing up that Jean wished she’d just hit him and spare him the disappointed exasperation that was _tch._ It also set off another desperate, looping train of thought in the back of Jean’s mind, a miserable gray little thought process that had been grinding its way around rusty, weedy tracks all summer long.

Reiner had come out of the closet towards the end of his senior (Jean’s sophomore) year of high school, to the surprise of exactly no-one.  Jean vividly remembered overhearing the gossip the day he’d walked past the teacher’s lounge during lunch.  _It_ was _pretty obvious, I_ mean… _he’s so charming, and such a handsome kid…seventeen and never had a girlfriend…_

Jean had never had a girlfriend at seventeen.  Jean was a week past twenty-one, and he had never had a girlfriend.  And yet no one seemed inclined to leap to the same conclusion and just make his life _so_ much easier…

Right before moving home for the summer, he’d bought a couple issues of _GQ_ from Wal-Mart, the ones with Hugh Jackman and Tom Hiddleston more or less shirtless on the covers.  He’d put quite a bit of time and energy into strategically ruffling the pages, so that they fell open at the slightest touch to the candid beach shots of attractive men running through the waves, wet translucent t-shirts clinging to toned muscles, and then mixed them conspicuously with his dirty laundry. 

He’d watched from the top of the stairs, mostly hidden behind the doorframe, as his mom sorted through his laundry bag…and threw his carefully prepared ‘incriminating evidence’ back into his backpack, barely glancing at the covers. 

After that, he was officially out of ideas.  And his mom was driving their creaky old minivan through warm, spitting summer rain fast enough that the G-forces made them sway in their seats every time she changed lanes, staring out through the foggy windshield like she could intimidate the yellow line into moving out of her way.  And what if she _had_ gotten a good look at those magazines, what if she’d know _exactly_ what he was trying to say, what if nine years in the Marines drilled in too many habits that died too hard and her face was set in an expression just short of a scowl as she drove through the rain to a wedding that wouldn’t’ve been legal nine months ago...

Jean wrapped his arms around his knees and wished he was somewhere else.

 

“There’s even less people I know here than I _thought_ there’d be,” Jean grumbled as he and his dad walked through the arched doors of the sprawling Botanical Gardens.  They’d driven out from under the band of heavy rainclouds and a weak, watery sun shone through the gaps in the clouds, but Jean’s mom had dropped them at the door to save his dad (who’d lost most of his vision to an explosion, years before Jean was born) picking his way across the expanse of cracked, slippery parking lot. 

“You remember Sasha, right?” Roy asked, pulling his cap off as Jean held the door for him (he’d never fully adjust to the site of his parents in their dress blues.)  “Rebecca’s kid?  She’s gonna be here.”

Jean frowned as he trailed after him.  The name sounded vaguely familiar from his middle school years…the primary associations were a frizzy mass of chestnut hair and an agonizing pain in his shins…and potatoes…

“They used to come to our Thanksgivings before Becca got reassigned.”

“ _Oh!”_ Realization dawned.  “ _Tater-tot girl!”_

“You have got to be the only person on the _planet_ who still remembers that, Jean-bo.”

Jean made a sickly croaking noise and spun around as his dad chuckled.

“ _Hi.”_

 _“_ Hi!” Sasha said cheerfully, her bright grin edging into evil territory.  He was a little surprised to see that she was wearing the uniform of the Botanical Garden’s event staff.  “It’s nice to see you again, Jean.  Got your potatoes under guard?”

“Sorry…” Jean mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sasha just waved him off.  “My mother’s been ‘casually reminding me’ for two _weeks_ that you were coming to this wedding,” she said, rolling her eyes. (“Oh, her too?” Roy muttered under his breath.) “I figured I’d beat her to the punch before she has a chance to throw me at you.”  Jean chuckled and relaxed a little. 

“I think my mother has similar plans…” he glanced behind him, noting that _both_ his parents were now conspicuously nowhere to be seen.  “So, still parent-disappointingly single, huh?”

Sasha smiled, wrinkling her nose at him.  “Yeah, romance ain’t really my thing,” (Jean heaved an internal sigh of relief,) “but Mom’s still holding out hope.  She’ll mellow out eventually.  How ‘bout you?”

“You uh…” Jean smirked.  “You’re not…exactly my type, I don’t think.  Not to say you don’t look _great…”_

She _did_ look great, he had to admit.  The Sasha he remembered from old army-base Thanksgivings had been a kind of sulky, chunky kid with a tendency to hiss and scratch at people she didn’t like.  _This_ Sasha was a solid two inches taller than him, and her puppy fat had smoothed out into some _serious_ curves.

“So what’s with the getup?” Jean asked, gesturing to her bright green uniform shirt. 

“Caterin’,” Sasha said with a grin, nodding at an overloaded table near the center of the garden.  “I made the cake.  Plus I’ve known Connie since we were little.”

“Yeah, where _are_ the boys of the hour?” Jean sighed.  “I need to go pay my respects…”

 

Reiner and Connie both greeted Jean with hugs and genuine, warm enthusiasm, but after a few minutes of the usual ‘so what’s your major’ platitudes, the general crowd of well-wishers drove him away, back out into the rest of the garden.  It _was_ a gorgeous place for a reception, he had to admit.  The clouds overhead were thickening again, turning the glass dome of the garden into a roiling blue-gray sea, and it made the lights strung through the big tropical trees all the brighter and warmer by comparison. 

His parents had vanished into the crowd (they knew more people here than _he_ did, after all,) and Jean wandered back towards the food, hoping to find Sasha…who was _also_ swamped, doling out food and making laughing conversation with the people around her…how did people _do_ that? 

The current of people eventually pushed Jean over to a quiet corner next to the bar (this was Reiner’s wedding, of _course_ there would be an open bar…) being manned by a tall, black-haired guy.

 _He_ was clearly having fun…watching him was kind of infectious, in fact.  His current customer was a woman with a very shy little girl, clinging to her hand and almost hiding behind her skirts.  He leaned over the edge of the bar to ask her something gently, and then nodded and started pouring a couple different sticky-looking syrups into a shaker.  He was talking the whole time, and Jean wandered a little closer, leaning on one of the tall round lounge tables, close enough to hear him over the background music and chatter.

“…somewhere between chemistry and performance art.  And I say that to distract you from the possibility that I’m about to drench myself in seltzer water…” he was saying, over the rattle of the ice.  “ _Like_ so—“ he reached up into the vines over his head, snapped of a big, droopy red blossom, and clamped the stem between his teeth…he had _really_ white teeth, and a pretty smile to go with it…and Jean couldn’t help but be impressed when he tossed the entire shaker behind his back, up over his head, and caught and poured it one-handed.  The resulting concoction was _bright_ pink, and the little girl giggled and clapped. 

The bartender pulled the flower out of his mouth with a disgusted face.  “ _Blech…_ I’m guessin’ matadors do that with _fake_ flowers.  _My lady.”_ He gave the little girl her drink with a courtly bow and stuck the big droopy flower behind his ear. 

“You gonna have what she’s having?”

Jean jumped a foot, accidentally punching himself in the chin as he started. 

“Fuckin’ god _damn_ it Hitch, how do you not make any noise in _heels?”_

Jean’s former babysitter rested her elbow on the lounge table and drummed her long nails elegantly across her cheek, batting her eyelashes at him.

“You’re sure you just weren’t too caught up in the _show_ there to hear me?”

Jean’s blush was instantaneous and nearly as pink as the little girl’s drink, and Hitch grinned ear to ear and punched the air victoriously.  “I _knew it!_ Welcome to the Dark Side, Jean-bo.”

“Please don’t say you have cookies,” Jean muttered, eyebrow twitching as his blush intensified.

“Brownies, actually.”  That was Annie, Hitch’s shorter, blonder, _scarier_ girlfriend, about six inches taller than Jean was used to thanks to a pair of black leather boots that laced all the way up her thighs.  She rested her elbows on the table and twined her fingers through Hitch’s.  “Want one?”  She unrolled the top of the paper bag in her other hand, and even across the table Jean could detect the faint, sickly-sweet undertone of some seriously pot-laced baked goods.  Both women laughed as Jean clearly hesitated.

“Go ahead, your dad took _two.”_ Annie handed him a sticky brownie wrapped in a napkin, and Jean took it gingerly. 

“I think he’s more _thirsty_ than hungry.” Annie raised her eyebrows, and Hitch jerked her head over her shoulder just in time for Hot Bartender Guy to pull off another flawless shaker flip.  He still had the stupid flower in his hair.  

 _Oh God oh no please be cool, please please_ please _be cool…_

“Hey, Marco!” Hitch yelled, loud enough that heads turned all across the garden.

 _OhGodohGodohGod_ please _don’t be on first name terms with the excessively hot bartender you just caught me lusting after ohhhh God…_

“We need one of those sugar-highs in a glass you claim are margaritas,” Hitch declaimed, pointing her emerald-nailed finger directly at Jean as he did his absolute best to become insubstantial and sink through the floor. 

The crowd had thinned out a little now that the dancing was picking up, and Marco came out from behind his bar, and oh god he had _freckles_ splattered liberally across his high cheekbones. 

“Sure,” he said, his voice a little softer and more natural than the bantery bartender voice Jean had heard him use before.  “What do you like?” 

“I’ve n-never had a margarita before,” Jean stuttered.  “I-I guess…I’ll have what you like?”

Hitch and Annie groaned, but Marco’s face lit up like a sparkler.  “ _Really?_ Awesome! I _never_ get to make those! Be right back—“

“That’s because ‘your favorite’ is _more sugar than an alcoholic candy bar—_ oh forget it,” Annie muttered as Marco bounced back over to his bar and started mixing enthusiastically. 

“Is your mom still trying to set you up with Sasha?” Hitch asked quietly, and Jean rolled his eyes.

“Word travels, huh?”

“Hnn…” Hitch looked thoughtful.  “Maybe I can keep her occupied for awhile…save room for dessert.” She winked, always a dramatic moment with her long, curled lashes, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jean staring after her in shock.  Did she just--?

He didn’t get much of a chance to ponder; Marco was pouring out two drinks from his shaker and fishing cherries out of a jar.  Then, to Jean’s surprise, he reached under his bar and pulled out a little sign, _Back in Ten Minutes,_ and carried both drinks over to Jean’s table.  Annie intercepted him halfway and whispered something in his ear, and Marco smiled and nodded as she disappeared in the same direction as Hitch.

“One pink lemonade depth charge,” Marco said cheerfully, handing Jean one of the glasses.  If he made anything of Hitch and Annie’s sudden disappearance, he didn’t mention it.  Jean quirked an eyebrow at the bright pink concoction.

“Isn’t this what you made for that kid?”

“This is the grownup version,” Marco said, taking a long sip and sighing happily.  “So how d’you know Hitch?”

“She used to babysit me,” Jean said, and he had to grin when Marco whistled.  “’Course that was before she, uh…”

“Bought a strip club?”

“Yeah, that.”  He sniffed his drink, and took a careful sip; he could barely taste the alcohol.  “You?”

“I was in ROTC with Annie for a couple years,” Marco said cheerfully. “Before I dropped out. Wasn’t really for me. I can still do a hundred pushups from my fingertips though.” He grinned and shifted enough that the muscles under his green uniform shirt flexed visibly, and Jean had to take a minute to make sure his soul wasn’t about to leave his body, holy _shit._ “By the way, I never got your name.”

“O-oh. Uh. Jean.  Jean Kirschstein.”

“ _Jean,”_ Marco repeated, nailing the pronunciation on the first try.  “Suits you…it’s pretty.” His phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket and made a face at the screen.  “ _Crap,_ I gotta reopen. It was nice talking to you Jean.” He gave Jean the warmest, _realest_ smile he’d ever seen…and then he honest to God _winked_ and scampered back behind his bar.

 

Marco’s Barbie-toned margarita didn’t _taste_ like alcohol, but it kicked like a kangaroo wearing tap shoes.    Combined with the heat and the noise, and Jean’s natural and deeply ingrained hatred of crowds, the basic effect was an anxiety attack in a bottle…head swimming and stomach churning unpleasantly, Jean ducked out a side door in the enclosed dome, out into the sprawling outdoor gardens. 

The cool, rain-heavy air outside was a blessing.  The real rain hadn’t hit yet, and the gentle mist dampened Jean’s hair and eased the heat of wearing a black dress shirt.  He just concentrated on breathing, wandering aimlessly along the twisting paths through the gardens. 

Why anyone would drink to forget their problems was beyond him…the anxiety and the nervous, baseless misery that had been plaguing him all summer seemed to be teaming up with the sickly fuzz the alcohol left in his head, leaving him feeling woozy and out of control and _far_ too exposed, even isolated towards the back of the gardens…and the wind was starting to pick up, carrying heavier drops of rain with it, clouds dark on the horizon.

He didn’t think twice when he came across the little corrugated metal shed nestled in a tall cedar hedge.  The door was unlatched and the inside was dank and musty, but the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling sputtered to life when Jean palmed at the switch inside the door.  It was empty except for a heavy metal storage trunk bolted to the floor and padlocked (no wonder they didn’t bother with the rickety fiberglass door)…the perfect place to hide out for awhile, at least until his head stopped spinning.  Jean kicked the door closed behind him and lay back on the trunk, enjoying the feel of the cool metal through his sweaty shirt.  Just a couple minutes…just till his head stopped spinning…

 

Someone tapped lightly on the door and Jean started violently out of his doze, heart slamming into his throat, his brain instantly flooding with potential excuses

_I just needed to get out of the rain, I—_

_Sorry, I twisted my ankle and needed to sit—_

_You mean this_ isn’t _the men’s room—_

 _“_ Jean,” Marco said softly, through the crack in the door.  “I’m gonna come in, okay?”

The door creaked open and Jean’s heart rate redoubled.  His posture reverted rapidly until he was once more a compact ball on top of the storage trunk.  Marco let the door close gently behind him and gave Jean a kind smile.

“Hey.  You okay?”

“Yeah…” Jean curled up tighter, hugging his knees and fully aware that he probably didn’t _look_ very okay.  “I just needed to get somewhere quiet for awhile…I’m not good with crowds.”

“You and me both,” Marco said with that sweet smile.  He sat down at a comfortable distance on the other end of the trunk and leaned back on his hands with a groan.  “Sorry I startled you…I saw you come in, so I thought I’d check…glad you’re okay.  We were starting to get worried.”

“Huh?”

“The cookies?” Marco giggled.  “Those things are strong as _shit,_ you’re a weed virgin, and then you wandered off and _vanished…”_ he rolled his head to the side and grinned at Jean, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.  “Annie was convinced she’d killed you.”

“Oh…yeah…” the grin was infections, and Jean laughed a little as he pulled the smushed, napkin-wrapped brownie out of his pocket.  “I didn’t eat it…it’s weird enough in my head right now without adding Annie’s crazy Russian pot to the equation…”

He didn’t think it was very funny, but Marco’s laugh was loud and genuine in the stuffy air of the shed.

“Hey uh…” Jean made himself lift his head and smile, if a little half-heartedly.  “I know I’m gonna regret asking, but what did Annie whisper to you before you came over?”

Marco’s eyebrows jumped, but then he smiled and laughed softly.  “Aw, it was sweet, actually.  She said _‘be good to him, he’s shy and he’s havin’ a rough time…’_ She’s nicer than most people give her credit for, y’know?  She doesn’t like seeing people she likes unhappy.” 

He stretched out his long legs, feet raising little puffs of dust from the grimy floor. He’d rolled back the sleeves of his green uniform shirt back above the elbow, and the cheap cotton clung to his chest, damp with sweat and humidity and the first drops of spitting rain, following the slight inward curve of his flat stomach and beads of rainwater clung to his glossy hair and the red flower he still had tucked behind his ear and _I’m so gay, oh my God I’m **so gay…**_

 **“** So…” Marco said eventually, breaking the silence right before it started to become awkward.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jean shrugged, still half-hiding in his knees.  “Not really.”

Marco tilted his head, leaning a little closer so he could see the sliver of Jean’s face visible between his knees and his arms.  “You want me to leave you alone?”

“…not really.”  _Oh God will you just go be hot somewhere else except don’t leave me alone except don’t stay_ here _I don’t know what to do with you well I_ do _know what to do with you but I don’t know how to start or how to talk to you or how to be a functional human being—_

“Hey,” Marco said, bright and cheerful, sliding across the storage trunk and fishing his phone out of his pocket.  “You ever heard of Markiplier?”

“… _hn?”_

“Well, if you don’t feel like talking, and you don’t feel like being alone…” Marco paused as the patter of rain on the metal roof picked up a notch “…and since it is about to absolutely _dump_ rain all over the place…let’s just stay here where it’s dry and quiet and watch stupid Youtube videos until my phone dies or we can go outside without melting.” 

 _You cannot_ possibly _be real._

“You don’t need to get back to work?”

“ _Nah,_ my shift ended at six,” Marco said, fiddling with a battered iphone.  “Well, six-thirty technically, but looking for a potential victim of Annie Brownies probably counts as work.  I could use a break from the crowds anyway…”

He flipped his phone sideways, scrolling through a playlist with his thumb, and his shoulder pressed into Jean’s, gentle and casual enough that he could easily shift away if he didn’t like the contact. 

Jean stayed where he was.

Marco’s phone battery hung on for about a third of Markiplier’s _Octodad_ playlist.  By that time the storm was _dead_ overhead, thunder rattling the little metal shed in a booming counterpoint to the constant drumming of the rain, Marco had untied his yellow bowtie and let it dangle loose around his neck, and Jean’s cheeks were starting to hurt from laughing.  Marco claimed to have watched the entire playthrough more times than he cared to count, but he laughed just as hard, a warm comforting weight pressed into Jean’s shoulder. 

“So were you friends with Reiner?” Marco asked during a break between videos, turning the brightness on his phone’s tiny screen down in a vain attempt to buy them a few more minutes. 

“Yeah…” Jean rubbed his shoulder, suddenly cold with Marco no longer leaning into his side.  “I haven’t really seen him since he graduated though, he was two years ahead of me…I don’t really feel like I know him anymore.”  He twined his fingers together, fidgeting miserably as he stared at his knees.  “He’s like…the guy next door who used to sneak up behind me on the playground and drop frogs down the back of my shirt and now he’s getting fuckin’ _married…_ ”

“Growing up _blows,_ doesn’t it?” Marco made a face as his phone let out a pathetic, strangled bloop, and finally died for good.  “There’s that moment when you come home from college and realize it doesn’t feel like home anymore…but school feels even _less_ like home…”

“And you just want desperately to go home but you don’t know where home _is_ anymore?”

“ _Exactly,”_ Marco said with a sigh.  Jean glanced up at him through his bangs, and couldn’t quite hold back the soft chuckle.

“ _Sorry,_ ” he said, sitting up straighter as Marco raised an eyebrow at him. “I keep forgetting about the damn _flower.”_

Marco blinked, and Jean laughed harder as he raised his fingers to the huge crimson hibiscus behind his ear, which he had clearly also forgotten about.  Marco stuck his tongue out at him.

“Think of it like this,” he said with a smile, pulling the flower out of his hair.  “The alternative is going back to high school.”  And then he leaned over and tucked the red bloom behind Jean’s ear, the soft petals cool against his skin.  Marco seemed to hesitate for a second, and then the tips of his fingers brushed through the short hair around his temple and Jean _knew_ his surprise showed on his face, eyes widening as heat flooded his cheeks.  Marco’s lashes fluttered and his lips parted: he looked surprised at _himself,_ his warm eyes locked with Jean’s and he let his fingers slip a little lower, brushing down the sharp angle of Jean’s jaw—

The power went out.

Jean swore and Marco started, his fingers gone from Jean’s skin and the noise of the storm seemed suddenly deafening in the blackness.  His knee banged hard against the metal corner of the storage trunk and Jean swore again, voice high and panicky, he squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again but none of it made any difference, there was _no light_ he couldn’t tell where Marco was anymore and he could barely hear his own panicked breaths over the rain being thrown against the metal walls by the howling wind.

“You okay? What was that noise?” Marco’s gentle voice came from the darkness on his left, soft and calm, and Jean forced himself to take a deep breath. 

“Y-yeah, sorry, I…I don’t like…I _don’t like the dark,_ I don’t like knowing someone’s close to me but not knowing _where—“_

 _“_ Okay,” Marco said, in that same gentle tone, soothing and quiet and unassuming.  “I’m gonna put my hand on your arm, okay? Okay, this is me…”

Jean still started violently when Marco touched him; he’d been anticipating the touch on his left arm, on the side Marco was on, but his warm hand settled firmly over Jean’s _right_ elbow, so that his arm was fully wrapped around Jean’s shoulders.  He took another long, steadying breath the way his mom had taught him to, to deal with the panic attacks, in through the nose, out through the mouth, relaxing his shoulders and Marco gently tugged him closer ‘til Jean was leaning into his side, a hand resting on his leg in the darkness.

“Better?” he asked, and Jean nodded, before realizing it was futile. 

“Yeah, that’s better, _sorry…”_

 _“_ Don’t be,” Marco said, and his voice sounded…strained, maybe? Higher than Jean was used to, and colored with a breathy little giggle.  “But you uh…you might wanna um…m-move your hand a l-little…”

Jean blinked uselessly, suddenly _very_ aware of his hand spread over Marco’s thigh, warm and firm under his skin and the button of his fly cold against his…wrist… _ohshit…_

“ _Ohmygod,”_ Jean squeaked, snatching his hand away from the…from his…Marco’s _crotch, yup, yup you_ absolutely _just grabbed his junk in the dark that is a thing you did the most attractive person you have ever seen in the flesh and you just felt him_ right the _fuck up.  “I’m so sorry,_ shitshitshit, I didn’t mean…I-it was dark, I—“

“ _It’s okay,”_ Marco somehow managed to catch his hands in the dark, and Jean was too wrapped up in his own hot little hell to register that he was laughing.  _“It’s okay,_ I know it was an accident.  And I uh…” his voice got breathy again, and Jean was suddenly finding it very hard to breath, “I…wasn’t exactly complaining.”

 _Ooooookay Jean, say something…just…something, say_ anything, _remember the English language you sonofabitch—_

 _“_ Hnnee _mpf--” Yeah, okay, stellar, let’s aim for an octave audible to human hearing…_

“Jean?” Marco whispered, there was an edge of nerves in his voice that was rapidly shading into terror, and his gentle grip on Jean’s hands loosening, and Jean just gave up on verbal communication.

He shook his hands loose from Marcos (and the tiny, pained intake of breath at that was enough to twist his heart in his chest,) trailed his hands clumsily up his arms, his warm skin and his rolled up sleeves ‘til he found Marco’s face, and Jean closed the distance between them in the darkness and kissed him. 

He _completely_ missed, between the dark and the nerves and his shaking hands, catching Marco somewhere between the corner of his mouth and his left nostril, but by then they were close enough for Marco to just turn his head a little, hands coming up to cup Jean’s head, his thumb brushed across Jean’s lips, feeling his way and then they were kissing for _real_ as the thunder exploding overhead, hard on the heels of a flash of lighting licking in under the door. 

It was easier to be brave in the dark: Jean let his hands wander, let himself fall into the warmth of Marco’s lips on his and his fingers tangled in his hair, sliding closer to trail his hands down his muscled arms, his back, down his sides to his stomach flexing with shaky breaths…even when they broke apart for air his hands continued to wander, Marco’s hand tightened on the back of his head and he pressed their foreheads together, warm breaths brushing Jean’s lips as he just let him explore.

His breath hitched on a half-swallowed moan when Jean edged his fingers under his shirt, tracing along warm skin above the waistband of his pants.  “This okay?” he asked, honestly surprised by how steady his voice came out, and Marco nodded, fingers tightening in his hair.  Jean trailed his free hand over his face as he flattened his palm against Marco’s stomach, some part of his mind deliriously counting the breaths that rose and fell against him.  When he brushed his fingertips over Marco’s lips he pursed them a little, tongue flicking out against the pads, and the next time he parted them fully and sucked Jean’s fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the tips and this time it was Jean suddenly boneless and gasping, his body sagging against Marco’s chest, head spinning and hips twitching. 

He curled his fingers, a little hesitantly, against the warm, soft pressure of Marco’s mouth, stroking his fingers across the surface of his tongue and Marco moved with him, following the motions and tipping his head back to take his fingers further in.  He swallowed heavily around them and moaned, deep in his throat and a little choked around the fingers in his mouth and the sound alone made Jean gasp and whine between his teeth, fisting his free hand in his own hair as Marco swallowed hot around his fingers again, _you_ cannot _be_ real…

Marco whined softly, twisting his head around to follow Jean’s fingers when he withdrew them.  Jean leaned in to find his lips again, meaning to kiss him…and froze and Marco’s brainless little moans really reached his ears.

 _“J-jean…Jean…”_ his _name,_ Marco was saying his _name,_ over and over the single syllable just barely coloring his gasping breaths.  Jean squeezed his hip, digging his fingers into the warm skin where Marco’s shirt rucked up, and swung his leg over Marco’s lap and raised himself up on his knees so he was leaning down into him, Marco’s head tipped back against the wall and for a second Jean wanted more than anything to be able to _see_ him…

“This okay?” he asked again, painfully aware of the pulsing ache between his legs and the scant few inches that separated his lap from Marco’s, and Marco nodded enthusiastically.

“ _M-more than…_ j-just…do whatever you want, okay?  Do what feels good, if I don’t like it I’ll tell you…”

“Say my name,” Jean whispered against his lips, a little shocked at his own boldness but mostly too turned on to care, and Marco let out another breathless little moan.

“J-jean…”

“ _Louder.”_

“ _Jean!”_

Jean finally gave into temptation and ground down into Marco’s lap, rolling his hips forward on pure instinct as he crushed their lips together again, no longer hesitant.  Marco’s lips parted eagerly at the brush of his tongue and his arms wrapped warm and solid around Jean’s thin waist, trying to pull him closer.  Jean pulled back just a little, breaking the friction between them, and grinned against his lips as Marco whimpered and squirmed under him, back arching, trying to tug him back down.

“Fricken’ _tease,”_ Marco mumbled.  Jean pulled back again and he groaned, half-laughing half serious.  “ _Nnnnn_ come _on,_ I had to watch you walkin’ around being…being f-fucking _gorgeous_ all _night_ don’t t-t-torment me further…”

“ _Gorgeous?”_ Jean grinned again, grinding back into Marco’s lap and drinking in his relieved, shuddery sigh. 

“ _God_ yeah.” Marco worked his hands under Jean’s damp shirt, running up his back and teasing over the contours of his shoulderblades and Jean swayed into the touch, skin tingling.  “You’ve got those high cheekbones, an-and long legs, and your _eyes…mmm…”_ he hummed as Jean kissed him messily, and then tipped his head back again.  Jean went to run his hands down his chest and missed in the dark again, accidentally pressing the flat of his palm against Marco’s throat.  Before he could snatch his hand back and apologize, Marco hummed and caught his wrist.

“ _Mmmm don’ stop…”_

“Y-you’re into that, huh?”

“Y-yeah, a l-little…” Jean returned the pressure and Marco squirmed under him, back arching to press their chests together as he rutted into Jean.  “I mean….n-not full on choking but a little pressure is… _mmmnnn yeah, like that…”_  

Jean nuzzled into his neck, kissing around his fingers as he ran his thumb firmly down the ridge of Marco’s windpipe, his other hand catching Marco’s hip to rut their clothed dicks together. 

“I believe you were telling me how hot I am?” he murmured between kisses, and Marco chuckled, working his fingers through Jean’s hair. 

“ _Mmm_ your hair is really cute, and _soft, God,_ and you’re so slim ‘n sexy and your ass fits just right in my lap…” Jean nipped experimentally at his skin, pressing his other hand _hard_ into Marco’s hip to keep him from bucking up, and Marco broke off, whimpering breathlessly as he strained against Jean’s grip. 

“Keep talkin’, Marco…”

“ _F-fuck, Jean,_ you’re just _beautiful,_ I don’t have the _words…_ ” Jean relented a little, settling himself in Marco’s lap again.  “It was your _eyes,_ that was the f-first thing I noticed, your damn gold eyes…your eyes are _so_ beautiful…I wish I could _see_ you…”

Jean snorted, finding his way back to Marco’s lips in the dark to kiss him softly.  “I don’t think I _ever_ woulda been brave enough to kiss you if I could see…”

They’d been moving faster and harder, grinding and twisting against each other, but at that Marco went still.  His hands slid soft down Jean’s back and came up to curl around his face, and he tipped his head up and pressed a gentle kiss against Jean’s eyelid. 

“Then I’m glad the lights went out,” he whispered.

And then, because every once in a while the universe _did_ decide to side with Jean Kirschstein, the lights came back on.

And the first thing Jean saw (once his eyes stopped stinging in the sudden glare) were Marco’s eyes, an inch from his own, melted with want and affection and lighting up with delight, half-hidden behind the mess of sweaty hair clinging to his face, and Jean buried his fingers in his hair and kissed him hard and warm and desperate, no more teasing, no more nerves and no more holding back…he kissed Marco with his whole body, trying to put all his want and need and _gratitude_ into it, because Marco was right…there weren’t words, he’d _never_ have the words to express what he owed to Marco’s warmth and patience and kindness in that moment.

 Marco’s arms encircled him, fisting his hands in Jean’s shirt and Jean wrapped his legs around Marco’s waist, lips locked and tongues tangled together, dug his heels into the small of Marco’s back and just _fell_ into him, riding him through their clothes.  Marco moaned soft and sweet, breaking away from his lips to bury his face in Jean’s shoulder, gasping his name over and over against his sweat-slick skin.  

“ _J-jean,_ ‘m gonna…I’m g-gonna--,” Marco stuttered around broken breaths.

“Y-yeah, me too, c’mon…” Marco moaned into his shoulder and Jean shifted, tipped his head back and curled his hand around Marco’s throat again and Marco’s moans turned delirious, fingers scrabbling at Jean’s back…and the way his jaw dropped and his eyes fluttered shut, crinkling at the corners was all it took to send Jean over the edge, nails catching in the soft skin under Marco’s jaw as he locked his legs around him and just _shook_ with it all. 

“Jean…”

Jean mumbled, draped bonelessly over Marco’s solid chest, enjoying the warm, sharp smell of his scent.  “ _Jeeeaaannn…”_ Marco hissed again, and this time enough of Jean’s brain had re-solidified to hear the note of pure terror in his voice.  And notice the cool breeze, and a few drops of rain from the passing storm drifting through the…open…door…

Jean whipped around, scrambling off Marco’s lap at a healthy fraction of the speed of light, agonizingly, terrifyingly aware of his damp pants and bitten neck and the sweat clinging to his skin (he’d completely forgotten the big red flower in his hair.)

“Go get cleaned up,” his mother said cooly.  “We’ll meet you at the car.”

“ _Finish if you didn’t!”_ his dad’s voice yelled from somewhere outside, followed by “ _…ow…”_

Jean just sat there frozen solid while Marco buried his face in his chest, making a long squeaky noise like the air being let out of a balloon. 

“ _How did she—“_

“ _I don’t know!_  Who was—“

“That was my _mom.”_ Jean disentangled himself numbly and scraped his hands through his hair, dislodging the hibiscus.  “Well that’s one way to come out to your parents.”

“Oh _fuck…”_ Marco buried his face in his hands, suddenly pale under his freckles.  “ _Annie,_ I texted Annie when I saw you come in here, to let her know you were okay…Jean, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry…”

“H-had to happen eventually,” Jean said with a sigh.  “Aw, Marco, don’t cry, it’s okay.”  He bent down and picked up the red hibiscus blossom off the floor, carefully brushing the dust off the wilting petals, and slipped it back behind Marco’s hair.  Marco smiled weakly, and Jean kissed the tip of his nose.  “It’s fine.  I’m gonna be _fine.”_

He’d made it back through the gardens and into a conveniently out of the way bathroom before it occurred to him that was the first time in _years_ he’d said he was fine and actually meant it.

 

His boxers were pretty much a lost cause…Jean cleaned himself up as best he could and then just rolled them up and dropped them in the trash can, with a mental prayer for whatever janitor had to empty it.  He tucked himself delicately back into his dress pants, resisting the urge to just huddle up on top of a toilet and never move again.  Music-facing time…

Jean found his dad leaning against the passenger door of the van, somewhere towards the back of the wet parking lot.  His mother was nowhere to be seen, and for the moment Jean was willing to take that as a small favor.  He was also a little relieved to see that his dad looked just as uncomfortable as he did.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So…” Jean shuffled awkwardly, digging his hands into his pockets.  His dad sighed.

“Okay, as your father, I think I’m required to say…you know how irresponsible that was, right? To say nothing of _dangerous.”_

“I _know,”_ Jean mumbled, staring at his feet.  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was gonna go so far…”

“And this I say as another guy…high five.”

“I— _huh?”_

 _“C’mon,_ high five.” Roy grinned as Jean stared blankly at his outstretched hand.  “He’s _gorgeous._ I’m proud.”

Jean continued staring.  “Y-you’re not mad?”

“Mad? For making out with someone? You’re twenty-one kid, you’re old enough to make your own stupid decisions.” 

“N-no, I meant…” Jean pulled his hands out of his pockets and forced himself to actually _look_ at his dad before blurting out “ _You don’t care it wasanotherguy?”_

He didn’t really know what reaction he was expecting, but it wasn’t the look of complete _shock_ on his dad’s face…or the surprised hurt that followed it.

“Where on _earth_ did you get the idea that we’d care about _that?”_

Jean felt himself shrinking again, hunching up inside his wrinkled, dusty jacket.  “The mood Mom’s been in, all day,” he mumbled, barely audible even to his own ears.  “She barely said a word drivin’ up here, and I’ve kinda had the…the _gay_ stuff on the brain and I started to wonder…” he bit his tongue, trying to clamp down on the miserable rambling.  “I’m sorry Dad…I just got scared.” 

He’d heard the soft click of heels on the wet pavement, and when he looked up again his mother was standing on his other side.  His parents shared a long, worried look over his head, and then Riza leaned against the car and wrapped an arm tight around her shoulders.

“Honey,” his dad said, “when you were in kindergarten, your mother bet me fifty dollars that Reiner would marry Bertholdt before they turned twenty-five.” Jean’s head snapped up, eyes widening as realization dawned, and his dad smiled, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Let’s just say the stakes have uh…escalated since then.”

“Fricken’ Springer kid cost me six hundred bucks,” Riza grumbled. “I should’ve known not to bet against your gaydar…”

“Takes one to know one…” Jean recoiled, and his father laughed.  “Oh r _elax_ kid, I have sucked a not inconsiderable amount of dick in my life…”

_“Daaaaaaad!”_

Both his parents laughed, and Jean’s mom hugged him tight against her side.  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.  You never should’ve been scared to tell us that…I shouldn’t’ve _made_ you scared.”

“S’okay...” Jean heaved a relieved sigh, his stomach _finally_ unknotting as he climbed back into the car.  “ _Shit…_ I didn’t even get his number.  Or his last _name…”_

“555-408-3318,” Riza said from the driver’s seat, reading the smudged ink number off her wrist.  “And his last name’s Bodt.  Why did you _think_ it took me twenty minutes to get over here?”

Jean squeaked and grabbed his mom’s wrist, punching the number into his phone with shaky fingers.  “ _Thankyouthankyouthankyou_ uh…how bad did you scare him?”

“Well, assuming he knows a good therapist…”

_“Moooom…”_

Jean peeled off his sweaty jacket and curled up in the back seat, watching the bright orange and gold sunset breaking through the scattering clouds.  He tapped the screen of his phone, staring at the number glowing at him from his palm, and hit ‘new message.’

 _So you were telling me how pretty my eyes are…_  

 

 


End file.
